The Beautiful Stranger

I cannot know what country owns thee now, With France's forest lilies on thy brow. When England knew thee thou wert passing fair; I never knew a foreign face so rare. The world of waters rolls and rushes bye, Nor lets me wander where thy vallies lie. But surely France must be a pleasant place That greets the stranger with so fair a face; The English maiden blushes down the dance, But few can equal the fair maid of France. I saw thee lovely and I wished thee mine, And the last song I ever wrote is thine. Thy country's honour on thy face attends; Men may be foes but beauty makes us friends.